


tokyo is (not) for lovers

by matoba



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matoba/pseuds/matoba
Summary: Natori Shuuichi finds out the hard way.(that yakuza au that no one asked for)





	tokyo is (not) for lovers

  

 _karehatete  
_ _ware yori hoka ni  
_ _tohu hito mo  
_ _arashi no kaze wo  
_ _ikaga kikuran_

 

thoroughly withered  
none other than me   
to see and to inquire  
hearing the winds of the storm  
I wonder how you feel 

 

(Shikibu Izumi)

 

 

 

At night, Kabukicho gleams.

 

But, it’s 4:36am in Tokyo, and crows pull apart the garbage heaped at the exits of host and hostess clubs, cawing loudly into the morning air. The streets stink, the bar signs are dimmed; the host rankings looking dull in the pre-dawn light. Kabukicho doesn’t so much as gleam in the mornings as it does fade into something resembling yet another district of Shinjuku.

 

Matoba’s shoes clack jauntily on the paving stones, and he hooks his arm around Natori’s, leaning into him in a giddy, companionable slant, their steps veering into the centre of the street and then back onto the pavement as Natori rights their course. Crows flap away from their trash, onto walls as they pass, and Natori (exhausted, edging towards hungover much faster than his compatriot), wishes for his bed.

 

“ _Ne,_ Shuuichi-san, let’s go say hello to Nanase-san. Her girls will be finishing up work by now.”

 

Why, Natori thinks, does Matoba have to make everything sound like a promise that belongs in a love hotel lobby?

 

They pass the host district, walking down the main street, past the tsukemen ramen shops, the glittering, mirrored door and red carpet of the ancient, oji-san populated Club Ai and its competitors, turning finally towards a parking lot. 

 

Short cut, then. 

 

Matoba drags him along, intent on making their night last until - quite possibly - noon, and then, he abruptly stops.

 

Ah, the billboard.

 

“Oya, look at you, _Club Casanova’s number one_ ,” he reads, with a sharp smile, his teeth flickering, his eyes snapping to Natori, “loverboy’s making himself a name, hmm?” 

 

There’s a gruff sort of sound from Natori in response to that, though he transitions effortlessly into a (tired) mimicry of his massive, ridiculous, (very handsome) poster. “Don’t tease now, I broke one hundred hearts to get up there.” 

 

Sparkle, sparkle.

 

“You should come and work for me,” Matoba waves him off, pinching at his sleeve and dragging him through the parking lot - Natori’s face watches them from the high wall, red swirling calligraphy promising _just three-thousand yen for first visits!_

 

“I’m terrible with needles, that might be a problem,” Natori waves a hand, allowing himself to be pulled along, letting himself lag behind, steps haphazard where he follows Matoba.“How could I hope for an acting career with all of those tattoos? I like onsen too, you know.”

 

“We have our own onsen.” 

 

The other man’s voice is never anything except that treacherous purr; Natori resents it, finds that Matoba, more-so than any seasoned host, can change that purr to suit himself, can turn it promising, exciting, wild, and then, in turn, it can be vulnerable - like a shot to the gut.

 

Matoba’s wearing his eyepatch tonight - it’s ridiculous, he looks like a villain from an ancient Bond film; that long hair, his pointed features, his odd, deliberate way of speaking. There is no occasion in which Natori finds him anything other than maddening - in all of its forms. He has to correct his course from time to time - it’s necessary to remain disgusted by the man, to see him for what he is, remember him for that. 

 

It’s useless to fall into that drunken haze of smiling at narrowed burgundy eyes (one scarred, right through the centre - that’s what you get for fighting with Korean gangsters at a Korean restaurant). 

 

He needs to extricate himself, and soon - for tonight, at least.

 

Shuuichi has a meeting at 3pm tomorrow, anyway - in _Chiba_ of all places. Plain clothes, outdoor liaison, a _park_. It’s as close to a bad film as he’s ever been, and he’s dreading the commissioner’s vague sympathy, telling him that he’s doing a good job, that he’s working hard for not only the city of Tokyo, but for Japan as a whole - the man might even waver into the territory of how he’s _doing his father proud -_ that one’s bound to come up again. The only reason his father phoned him last weekend was because he heard about Natori’s progress with the new yakuza head - that he was _in,_ that he was, to summarise the report’s skirting language, in complete, and utter _deep shit_.

 

 An honourable vocation; police work, he thinks. 

 

So honourable that he spends his nights romancing lonely women for a cover, and his after-work pre-mornings at whatever sleazy strip joint, bar, or hostess club Matoba deems eligible enough to drink at - his mad tastes rampaging from Shinjuku to Roppongi.

 

They’re friends, now, apparently.

 

 _Friends_ is a very loose term for Matoba; Natori’s not entirely sure the man knows what the term actually means. Fast friendships are usually not taken to Soapland, for a discounted blow job (yakuza perks!). Natori had watched the poor girl, Matoba had watched Natori, and the whole thing had been unnecessary - but, he’d allowed it when, leaning into the taxi window, Matoba had pressed his smirking mouth to Natori’s, sending him off with an elegant, backwards wave, his airy “Well, you can’t kiss the ladies there” following him as he rolled up his window.

 

Running around with Matoba, in this city, with this brand of friendship? It’s a knife-edge, he’s doomed, he’s in too deep, if these are the trenches then, well, no one warned him, he’s hip deep in the filth.

 

“Shuuichi, wake up.” 

 

They’re around the corner from Nanase’s, and Matoba has turned to him, pulling at the edges of his coat, dragging him in closer, and smiling that impish smile at him, nearly all teeth.

 

The man reaches up, tugs on a strand of blonde hair.

 

“You’re a centimetre too tall and too blonde to be an idol, you should get a tattoo with me, when I go to touch up.”

 

Matoba exudes heat, Natori can’t breathe.

 

Shuuichi’s hand settles on the other’s waist, and Matoba tilts his head. “Hm?”

 

They pause like that, at the top of the stairs, the entrance to the flagship club of Nanase’s lot throwing garish pink light over them both. Matoba looks gaudy in it; every inch the tacky yakuza with his eyepatch and his coy, heavy-lidded looks.

 

Natori’s the one that moves, this time, his hand presses, just once, as if in parting, and he tilts his head towards the jangling, beaded curtain that swings at the end of the staircase.

 

“After you.”

 

Matoba, ever the tease, lifts one shoulder, glances over it at Natori, and then melts into a smile, wide and mean, and descends the stairs - his steps are very sure, for someone who’s capable of consuming the volume of alcohol that he does - and he mixes, too, Shuuichi notes. Whiskey, sake, whatever shots are on offer - there’s violent abandon to these nights out, something manic, simmering with as much tension as the humid, Kabukicho summer evenings. It’s good, it’s inhuman - a drunk yakuza is better than a sharp-eyed, clear-minded one. Shuuichi goes along, is lead along.

 

The beaded curtain obscures his vision for a moment, he catches sight of the long, dark hair that signals Matoba walking in ahead of him. Natori pushes aside the beads, fights them for a second, then strolls in, stopping when a young woman skitters out into the entranceway, all short skirt and Harajuku heels.

 

“Welcome, sirs.”

 

What a pretty girl, Natori thinks, and watches Matoba slink towards her. Her hair’s the same pine-marten red as a bunch of the other girls in the club - though he suspects that there’s too much shine there - maybe a wig. She bows to them, hands clasped. Despite the politeness, there’s a buzz of activity in the recesses of Nanase’s - the girls were finishing up their final hour, clacking on their phones, stretched out in the various booths that line the central dais of the club (which houses a piano, of course, down-lit by the same ugly fuchsia as the entrance. Their attention is immediately away from the screens, and on the two newcomers - they all know Matoba, though Natori’s a relatively new face; he hasn’t seen some of the newly shifted recruits. There’s a titter of murmurs, a pretty brunette smiles at him.

 

Matoba, always the creep, runs a lock of their hostess’s hair between his fingers, twirling it, and giving her a real jackal’s smile. Shuuichi finds it annoying, actually - the guy can be weird, there’s no doubt there. But, no one calls him out, he’s allowed to roam freely, to slither as he wishes.

 

Shuuichi, always the dandy, steps up, offers her his hand (he waits for Matoba to move off, of course, can’t offend the boss).

 

“A pleasure, Miss—“

 

“Yuka, _desu._ ”

 

Polite too! Natori offers her one of his brilliant, dazzling smiles - the ones that had his face lighting up those alleyways around the host district, on all of those event posters.

 

“Yuka, a lovely name, _ka_ , reads as Summer - or are your kanji different?” Literally every hostess, this side of the station, chooses that name. And the _ka_ always, _always_ means Summer. It’s such a safe guess that Natori raises an eyebrow, still holding the girl’s hand.

 

“Oh, yes!” She blushes, this is too easy. 

 

Matoba’s watching, sliding into a booth, a drink already in his hand, something flickering in the way he tracks their movements. Nanase passes behind the yakuza, touches a hand to the top of his dark head in greeting - she’s busy, she’ll drink with them when it’s 5.

 

Natori, sensing that eye on him, bows Yuka off, and goes to join Matoba, finding the man slouching in the booth, foot tapping against the table leg. Those cheeks look gaunt in the neon of the club, and Shuuichi reaches over him, takes hold of the glass of _whatever that is_ , and takes a sip, returning it to Matoba’s hand. 

 

He’s supposed to be the companionable, young, ambitious host-aspiring-actor - he needs to keep up that front of liveliness, even if, watching the other man’s profile (it’s a nice profile, he supposes; thin, architectural lines comprising nose and forehead, to upward curve of upper lip, to perilous shock of black eyelashes)—anyway… _even if_ watching the other man’s profile makes him want to abandon ship right there, to tell him he’s too gone, too dead-tired, and beat a retreat, and take his lonely humiliation back home.

 

Looking out at the club, this one’s a good one. The girls seem healthy, relatively happy. But, Matoba’s taken him to other places - where the hollow-looking, haunted creatures shiver in bikinis, offering massages, other services - all kept in their places because of debt.

 

Gravity, he thinks, is terrible and morally compromising - it’s the devil itself.

 

His hand, as such, drops down, onto Matoba’s thigh, rounding the curve of his inner knee just to settle there.

 

It has the desired effect; the yakuza’s all purrs once more, his brief spate of jealousy chilling out - and he leans his chin onto Natori’s shoulder, breath heating the skin of his neck.

 

“Let’s go home, hmm?” Matoba says.

 

Of all bad ideas, that’s the kicker.

 

He knows where this ends, and where Matoba wants it to end - they haven’t done anything, aside from the drunken, sometimes sharp-toothed kisses that the yakuza lands on him. Something in Shuuichi; some watery, lust-spiked little part of his soul would be all right with that ending. Instead he’s hanging onto his flimsy sense of justice.

 

It’s always the weak-willed cops who excel in undercover. Hadn’t his father said that, once?

 

They bend easily, and then are easily reeled back in.

 

Natori’s aware of his own spinelessness - and, for all of that wanting to be a good person, what he also wants, in absolute, perfect time with that, is to take Matoba home with him, hold him, and sleep for thirteen hours. 

 

It’s pathetic, it’s laughable.

 

His resolve shakes when Matoba leans into him first, tucking himself behind his arm, sliding a hand inside his jacket, fingers finding the (fake) Hermes belt buckle (a host’s signature!), and tapping against it, fiddling. The yakuza fits his nose and mouth against the crook of Natori’s jaw, something wet in his breath heating the skin.

 

“Don’t be boring, my darling, best you pay attention.”

 

Pay attention.

 

Shuuichi wants to laugh, “I have to wake up early tomorrow, you know. I can’t spend _every_ _hour_ with you.”

 

“—as much as you’d like to, obviously, hmm?”

 

“Of course I’d like to, you know that.”

 

It’s the hours _away_ from the man that help him feel human again, that allow him to strip down his careful, constructed identity and just be Shuuichi - even for six hours, spent tossing in bed, chasing sleep.

 

Matoba’s consumptive, everyone knows that.

 

And, Matoba bites him then, _hard_.

 

“What the— what was that for—?” Shuuichi yelps, smacking him lightly on the knee, giving it a shake.

 

There’s only a whicker of laughter from the yakuza, and he runs his tongue over the bite mark, teeth grazing because clearly this man cannot stop smiling - it’s chronic, it’s a _problem_.

 

There’s no use, not really, in trying to make sense of him - Natori just gives the man’s knee another soft shake, shrugging his shoulder to ward him off.

 

He’s never been so absolutely paid attention to - never in his life. His family had no interest, no one else did either - Matoba’s attention is _focused_ , unrelenting. It’s curious to feel so seen.

 

Sometimes, Natori wonders what Matoba gets from this odd friendship - what he takes away, at night, to whatever fancy apartment he returns to after hours. But, he’s seen the glimmers - a plaintive, matching loneliness to his own exists somewhere in the drunken insanity of all of these mad parties, exists in the way he feels the man slot his shoulder into the crook of Natori’s own, nose knocking against his cheek or jaw. They’re both the products of dead mothers, and fearsome, paranoid fathers. 

 

But: they have different paths.

 

Two hostesses slide into the booth opposite them, elbows leaned on the table - they introduce themselves; Noriko (a blonde: Matoba’s attention flickers over fast enough) and their original girl, Yuka. 

 

Nanase arrives at the table herself in a few moments, bringing a tray of drinks. She’s not one to serve customers, being the mama-san, but she’ll do it if it’s Matoba, obviously.

 

“Hello, Matoba-san,” she levels a look at them both, her steel-grey eyebrow raised at Natori, “Shuuichi-san.”

 

Matoba hisses a laugh, and hands a drink to both of their companions, then to Natori. He’s made no real move to return the other man’s space to him, of course.

 

“I’ve been telling everyone, everywhere to call me _Seiji_ since I was sixteen, you know,” he leans in to whisper this conspiratorially to Natori’s ear, but he misjudges the distance (eyepatch), and bumps his nose and mouth there, teeth knocking into him for probably the fourth time tonight. Rabies, Natori thinks. He probably needs a tetanus shot - who knows what doe-eyed, blonde whores Matoba’s sunk those teeth into in all his years working the Shinjuku clan faction?

 

How’s that going to look on his police report tomorrow? How to word it, even— caution: bites?

 

Nanase just watches, seems bemused.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

The conversation rambles, Nanase drinks quietly.

 

“Anyway,” Noriko is saying, smiling at Matoba, her cropped golden hair looks tidy, presentable (young) around her jaw, “I wouldn’t want to work during the day time - it’s so— it’s boring. How about you, Matoba-san, would you work in the day?”

 

Natori glances over, breaking his conversation with Yuka.

 

Matoba lazes agains the back of the seat, dragging the toe of his shoe along the girl’s ankle.

 

“No, obviously not.”

 

Natori thinks (gloomily) of the morning - how he’ll have to drag himself from whatever bed he finds himself in - hopefully his own, and not Matoba’s (Natori would never touch one of these poor girls, of course - he knows that; something old-fashioned and not entirely politically-correct, and all cop surfaces in him when he watches them. Pretty, but _too young_ , too trapped). Somehow he’ll slump into the shower, then stare at his hollow, exhausted face in the mirror, and get himself on the rapid train to Chiba. 

 

He also (gloomily, too), eases his shoulder behind Matoba’s - his stupid, hopeless wish for contact momentarily assuaged when the yakuza leans back, crosses one leg over the other so that one can bracket Shuuichi’s, his foot trailing against the man’s pant leg now, instead of the dainty ankle across the table.

 

He turns his head, teeth glinting. 

 

“And you, Shuuichi-san, what would you do, if you weren’t Kabukicho’s loverboy?”

 

Pat pat. Natori looks down - that fine-boned hand slides up his thigh, dangerously close to his groin, and heat floods him, spikes his pulse.

 

A patient, tender look is turned on Matoba (he’s been practicing; the glances come easier and easier). 

 

“Have you _heard_ me when we go to karaoke?” he says.

 

His one great strength! His pop-star’s voice. The lead attraction of the Tokyo PD’s after work drinking parties, the champion of bonekai’s, the dead-ringer for that one famous band-member’s tone, and the saving grace of bored, drunken nights spent with Matoba and seven hostess girls - it’s a gift, really.

 

Matoba’s mean enough to grimace, then cackle, his nose wrinkling with his snarl and causing it to fall flat.

 

“Of _course_ you’d be an empty-headed singer”, he looks over at Nanase. “Shuuichi sings like an angel, but he can’t choose a decent song for all of the tea in China.”

 

Natori fakes an insulted glare. As if yakuza know anything about good taste. 

 

Especially this one. 

 

He hasn’t forgotten the burgundy suit.

 

There’s something of that colour in Matoba’s eyes, of course - he’s vain as the best of them. The chatter continues, and Natori feels the other man weigh heavier and heavier against his shoulder. He, himself, was ready to call it a night after they left the strip club in Roppongi, but there’s no arguing with Matoba over a plan - he’s quick as a fox in his decisions, and before you’re even aware, you’re swept up in them, dragged into a taxi, Matoba yapping out _Kabukicho_ to the driver.

 

The girls chatter - but even so, they’re a little formal with their Mama-san at the table next to them, and the newly minted, infamous pair of East Shinjuku. Natori watches them, allows Matoba his conversation with Nanase (it doesn’t include him anyway - they always talk clan politics like a pair of conspiring grandfathers at an Izakaya).

 

Matoba’s hand has finally stilled, his thumb moving against the fabric of Shuuichi’s suit pants every now and then; but it’s hazy, a little drunk - affection from a man who is at best fickle with those affections. No one questions it - least of all Natori, though it boils his blood for a spiral of reasons. What’s the point, anyway - questioning Matoba, when he’s like this? 

 

He’s half nuts _sober_. 

 

Not all that many men would snark away at five Korean mobsters outside of clan territory. 

 

Not many men would strangle a sixteen year old blonde teenager, either - it’s not easy to forget the way that smile had stretched; brittle and vicious, and whatever the kid’s name had been - the one from that new place; the one that does boys and girls (Natori will shut it down, he swears) - had cried. 

 

Anyway: if they do not matter to Matoba, they do not matter at all.

 

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

 

They’re lying by the hotel pool. 

 

The famous one, the three-tiered Shinjuku one - obviously. Matoba likes his dirty town. The place is indoors, because it’s so high up - you can see Fuji-san, kind of, if you squint through the big, pyramid-shaped windows. Natori’s nursing yet another hangover - his popularity at the club’s been climbing - his customers love him, he gets expensive, insane watches - brands he’s never heard of; spinning faces, diamond-encrusted. Well— it’s something to pawn off if he ever needs to leave the country in a hurry, right?

 

That’s looking like a distinct prospect, these days.

 

Matoba’s in a pair of sleek black swim-trunks, a robe casually draped over his shoulders. He’s on the lounger next to Natori’s, feet kicked up on an extra towel, hair in a ridiculous sort-of scraggly bun. There’s a funny hush over the rest of the pool-goers - after all, those tattoos aren’t easy to look away from. Monsters, beasts, horrible things, _youkai_ crawl towards the central image of an eye - it’s traditional style, hand-cut.

 

 _Ouch_ , Natori thinks.

 

“Oya—“

 

That voice brings him out of his thoughts, and Natori - looking a little tired (but still quaffed and faintly tanned! He has a reputation to uphold, here), glances over, lowering the copy of the _Yomiuri_ that he’s been not-reading.

 

“What?”

 

Matoba rolls over, onto his stomach, propping his chin in his palm. There’s no eyepatch to speak of today, and clearly he’s feeling _yakuza_ enough to leave it off.

 

He’s smoking, too - those terrible, black and gold things that he likes, with their 8 milligrams of tar. Natori has tried a drag, here and there, when drunk, but the hit always sends his already inebriated head reeling - smoking doesn’t agree with him like it does with Matoba. 

 

But, then again, everything seems to agree with Matoba.

 

There’s silence, so he tries again. “Matoba-san, _what_?”

 

It takes a solid two point four seconds for Natori realise that Matoba just reached over, and put his cigarette out on his _hip_.

 

His yelp echoes across the pool - the guests look over at them, the bartender looks over at them. Natori gives a pained smile, grimacing through a wave. He looks down, nurses the cigarette burn, and glares at Matoba’s smiling face.

 

“What the hell did you do that for? Seriously.”

 

The yakuza licks a finger, and ignoring Shuuichi’s flinch, cleans the ash from the burn. 

 

“I felt like it.”

 

There’s that weird little smile.

 

“You’re unbelievable,” Natori huffs, flustered, for once, and angry. “What the hell”

 

Rolling back over, Matoba reaches for the newspaper that fell onto the floor between their pool chairs - picking it up, shaking off some water, and studying the first page. He can probably feel the vibe rolling off of Shuuichi, so he does this for a pointed few minutes, then sits up, feet landing on the floor with a slap, toeing into his hotel slippers.

 

“I’ll get you a mimosa, stop sulking.”

 

His smile’s mean, though - even if he does reach over and smooth back Natori’s wet hair, sort of styling it, though it springs forward without wax - as it always has done. Matoba hums a laugh, and slinks off to the bar, elbows resting on the lip of it, looking back over at Natori with his typical _come hither_ eyes. Natori, on the other hand, is still frowning at the new decoration above the band of his swim trunks, the skin blistered, sore.

 

Sundays are the worst, he thinks, and wishes he had just been posted in the local koban. Maybe somewhere like— Yoyogi, or _Tamagawa_ , where literally nothing ever happens.

 

Oh no, he spends his Sundays, unfalteringly, with Matoba.

 

But, still. The yakuza returns with Natori’s drink, slipping closer to sit next to him, now on the edge of Natori’s lounger - he bends his knee underneath himself, perching like a teenager, resting his now free hand on the other man’s calf, fingers stroking up and down the back of his leg. He leans in, clinks his glass of _whatever that is_ (probably bloody _shōchu,_ at 11am) against the rim of Natori’s, and tips his head to one side, eyes narrowing with what, in the world of Matoba’s expressions, might be warmth.

 

“Truce, yes?”

 

His fingers massage the skin they’ve landed on, and Natori shifts; uneasy, wanting (ah yes, that old spinelessness, his father would be _so proud_ ).

 

Leaning further, the yakuza rests his chin on that knee, looking, to Natori’s further unease, like either an over-large, feral cat, or— something, someone younger. As to how he manages this, Natori will forever be in the dark - but he reaches over anyway, touches two knuckles to Matoba’s chin, thumb pressing there afterwards in a slide of contact. It’s just a— stupid, ill-advised stroke. 

 

But, something in him thrills when Matoba tips his head down, rests his nose and mouth against it - and that, for the first time, feels like he has some sort of control - like this situation could be tipped in his favour. Matoba may fight like a madman, but Natori (with his police training, his broad shoulders) is his physical superior. Not that this means much if one were to be shanked in the gut, as Matoba was fond of doing in dirty fights, but still. Manipulating him, in the smallest, most physical sense, turning his chin - it’s the tiniest take-back, but it’s something.

 

That’s why, Shuuichi knows, with a curl of dread, of _terror_ \- that he’s going to fuck Matoba, eventually.

 

What a dirty play, for a dirtier, false sense of power.

 

Whatever, he thinks: trenches.

 

“Truce,” he answers, quite softly, watching the way the other’s eyes have slid shut. Natori sips his mimosa, pitying his liver.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

5 more months in: he does.

 

It’s just after his other mole - the one in the Osaka branch of the Matoba clan has called him, and in a clipped, dour tone told him, pay phone to pay phone: _Matoba knows_.

 

The jig is up.

 

And, at those words, Natori is just short of violently, physically ill. He’d known, sort of. He’d felt the cool regard hitting the side of his face, when he was doing something and Matoba was looking on - Matoba watched him a lot before, of course, but now? There’s something obsessive in it, manic.

 

So, that night, he goes drinking with him - as always - they get half-hammered in a bar in Ginza, and finally, _finally_ , Natori presses Matoba up against the wall, behind the bar’s back door, and kisses him with intent, spurred by an instinct that is equal parts chemistry and survival. There is a thrill in it - this dangerous, sharp creature turning pliant against him (still with those teeth, though - he’ll have bloody lips the next day).

 

There is snow in both of their hair, and they retreat to a taxi, breath clouding, eyes locked.

 

The whole affair is so fraught with tension, he pulls Matoba into his lap in the backseat, hands clasping his hips and grinding them together, feeling an answering arousal through the other man’s suit pants; all heat and urgency and long-awaited, simmering _need_.

 

He pulls back for a moment, to look into those terrible, red eyes, and finds that the other man strangely _even_ , calm. It doesn’t do anything to calm him in return, and instead, he just noses in for another kiss, feeling Matoba’s hands wind into his hair, stroking it this way, then that, pushing it carefully behind his ears. If the yakuza gets any sense of a tremor in Shuuichi’s hands, he for once, refrains from commenting. If he feels the rabbit-like hammering of the other man’s chest, he’ll probably write it down to arousal.

 

They don’t talk as they walk up to Natori’s apartment (the carefully constructed fake - all the possessions not his own, the photographs a load of farces, the hair products (are kind of… his, actually) engineered to make him seem, truly like the character that he’s come to inhabit so thoroughly), he opens the door for the yakuza, sees him in, places a hand on his lower back and, locking the door behind them, turns him, and slams him back against it.

 

They barely make it the few paces to the small bedroom - but, there’s something insistent in both of them; some weird instinct to _do this right_ , to be thorough. 

 

Matoba’s been with men before, of course - he knows how these things go. Natori has to loosen a modicum of his iron grip, and let the other man smirkingly show him.

 

The yakuza’s breath is uneven when he spreads his legs, allowing Natori to come closer, allowing him to run his hands up, from his knees, to his thighs, to his hips - he even allows it when Natori pins him, when he finally rolls his hips into that tight heat, his hand closing around Matoba’s fine wrists and keeping them there, against the mattress, while he pants into his mouth, slips his free hand between them and finally touches the other man in the ways that he has not allowed himself; he drags his nails along that pale stomach, presses a palm to his cock, circles back, over the jut of a hipbone.

 

“ _Harder,”_ Matoba says, and bends a knee, bringing him in closer, closer.

 

There’s that flicker of danger - flashing through merlot-red.

 

Natori obliges, watching the anger fade from Matoba’s face as he finds that spot, the one that snaps the yakuza’s head back, his tattoos writhing with the rapid movement of his breath. His hands find Shuuichi’s shoulders, and scrabble there, finally free from that hold, and he hooks one elbow around the back of the other man’s neck, forcing a shift in position - the angle is achingly good, Natori’s hands slide up Matoba’s sides, down his back, over his ass, pulling him closer still.

 

It’s terrible, it’s wonderful, Natori’s certain he’s done for.

 

Afterwards, they lie separately; and Natori watches the line of Matoba’s back, the S-curve, illustrated stretch of it, pale skin showing through beneath the tattoos, sees the dark hair, loose over his shoulders. Something tender snaps in him; because Shuuichi, despite his vacillating, nervous heart, has been so lonely for so long. He reaches over, touches Matoba’s lower back, and shifts in closer, dropping an arm around the yakuza’s waist and laying his head on the man’s chest, at the point of his sternum. There— he thinks, there.

 

If he dies here, then so be it.

 

But, today is not his day.

 

Matoba’s hands just move over his shoulders, stroking into his hair, thumbs pressing against Natori’s temples just once.

 

What Natori cannot hear: the thought that passes through Matoba’s own head, the bemused _so_ , this is why you’ve always been so terrible at this life, this why you always seemed green and un-streetwise, and old-fashioned and clumsy. A stupid, reckless, gentle infiltrator. 

 

He knows he’ll have to kill him, but he plans to sleep with him a few more times first - why not just make it that much worse? Why not bury that sense of solitude in the easy warmth of this wayward policeman’s arms? So what, there are only further depths below this one, why not chase them.

 

Matoba stays the night, then, shifts in the darkness to tuck his nose into the crook of Shuuichi’s jaw, fingers closing and unclosing beneath the smooth, unscarred skin of those shoulder blades.

 

The next morning is the true disaster: Shuuichi says _good morning_ against the back of his neck, moves his hair out of the way and says it - right there against his skin.

 

Matoba’s rather used to things shattering, though.

 

“Morning”, he echoes, and Natori breathes evenly against him, hand splayed against his solar plexus, a leg tucked between both of his. What a fool, he thinks; he’s gone straight back to sleep. But, he turns to look at him - with his labrador-blonde hair, his perfect, movie-star’s face, the faintest, most imperceptible lines that have begun to creep from the corners of his eyes.

 

“You great fool,” the yakuza says, exhaling, blowing a strand of that fringe off the other’s forehead.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

Several months before that, however, Matoba’s holding a wad of paper towels to Natori’s eyebrow, and they’re standing in the pathway to Hanazono shrine, right next to Golden Gai, and just before the dance clubs of Shinjuku’s 2nd district.

 

“I can’t believe you cut me.”

 

The yakuza only offers a breathy laugh, and dabs at the wound, seeming unconcerned at the amount of Natori’s blood that has dripped onto his hand, soaking the white cuff of his shirt.

 

“You got in my way, lovely, it was just a slip.”

 

It was not a slip - and that’s a direct lie; Matoba had slit a yakuza’s throat in the centre of Nanase’s hostess club - and had turned on the boy that the man had brought with him (that same blonde one?), and looked as if he were about to repeat the action. Natori had intervened, received a nice, clean gash to the face when he did. The boy had remained intact, though, and Matoba had ( _sort of_ ) halted. Probably because Natori had been bleeding more dramatically than the dead guy, staring at him in shock, reaching up to touch his bloodied forehead.

 

Matoba had given Natori a quicksilver grin, and walked straight out of the club, throwing the knife down onto the resident corpse, where it clattered to the floor, leaving a red crescent against the faux-marble flooring.

 

Nanase-san had seemed completely impartial to the whole affair, and she’d been— most extraordinarily of all— on her cellphone for much of the incident. Used to it, then. Or the orchestrator. He does not trust Nanase as Matoba does - but, then again, she did not raise him. Nanase and Matoba are cut from a similar cloth - he knows that.

 

Matoba moves away from him, now, and towards the _chōzuya_ \- the holy little pavilion where worshipers are supposed to wash their hands, just to the left of the main temple. He lifts the convenience store packet, fishing out a dishcloth that they’d bought on the way (Natori had to wait outside because he kept bleeding everywhere). 

 

He reaches for the dipper, takes a drink himself, and then pours water over the cloth, wetting it.

 

Natori gets motioned over.

 

“You’ll probably get an infection,” Matoba smirks, and raises the towel to press it against that cut, cleaning the edges. “I’ll put disinfectant on it when we get back to mine.”

 

Natori, exhausted, leans a hip against  the edge of the large basin, and lets Matoba tend to him - he leans into the hand, eyes heavy against the rising sun.

 

There’s a faint memory in this, somewhere, of his mother tending to a cut that he’d gotten - of cleaning the dirt from it with a wet cloth, smiling at him and telling him to watch where he puts his feet, watch his step, to always keep half an eye on the path ahead. Matoba’s nothing like that, of course - and anyway, Matoba is also a creature that he could never have seen coming, there was no keeping half an eye on that vertiginous, scarred, tattooed path. 

 

But, the man does have deft hands, he supposes. His wrists are deceptively brittle.

 

 

/////

 

 

They catch a cab back to Matoba’s after that, and Matoba dozes with his head against the windowpane, the air-con cutting through the humidity of the early morning.

 

Natori lies against the seat, the bleeding having stopped, mostly thanks to the yakuza’s ministrations. He wants to sleep too, but feels wired, frenetic - like the energy from their previous nightly round of Shinjuku has stayed with him, despite the fringes of a hangover.

 

Instead, he settles for watching Matoba. 

 

The man seemed to have been impressed at Natori’s lack of reaction to seeing a person stabbed neatly to death in front of him - perhaps he’d thought that this host dog of his would be quaking at the sight. It may have been bad acting, for a single, instinctual moment, on Natori’s part. Should he have been afraid? He’s an officer, he’s trained, he’s seen some stuff (as much as one can see, working in Tokyo - he’d been promoted for this mission, courtesy his father’s recommendation, all the way from his retirement on their family compound). He’d been calm, though. Jumpy, sure. But calm too.

 

This feels like the true lull - Tokyo’s early morning streets (Natori’s started hating the morning birds, as well as the whine of cicadas as the heat wakes them) are quite empty, devoid of their usual tourist crowds and salarymen. He presumes that there are some hangers-on sleeping on the Shibuya and Roppongi pavements, of course - those who missed their trains, too drunk to stumble to a taxi.

 

(Look, Natori’s been there too. Matoba left him in the doorway of a flower shop in central Kabukicho, that one time. The man had phoned him at around eight, woken him up with a breezy “sorry about that, Shuuichi-san, I had to run - business, you know.” Shuuichi had been groggy, unimpressed, stared down by some orchids, and still in his three-piece suit from the host club. Granted, Matoba had taken him to dinner that night, had sniggered through asking (quite innocently) where he’d slept, and had kissed him in the back booth of that dark restaurant, hands wandering - as they always do).

 

Usually, Natori’s the one more prone to arbitrary napping. Matoba’s taking that credit this morning. Presumably the thrill of the kill - and all of those exclusively yakuza pleasures have worn him out.

 

He wonders if Matoba suspects him, sees him for the great faker that he is.

 

It’s not the first time that he thinks, for self-preservation’s sake, he should distance himself from the utter forest fire that is this man’s attention. But, being the faker, he can’t help but marvel at this yakuza’s brutal authenticity - he says what he wants to, the first things that come to mind, acts carefully, but with great conviction (not always _so_ carefully, of course). He should distance himself, but watching the man is something else - it’s got that lure of watching cruelty carried out, but without having to participate, watching something gory, horrific, but being safe, behind a screen.

 

There’s no screen, of course, the man’s hands are on him constantly.

 

But who’s to say he never invited it? He’s not certain he did, but he’s reached back in turn. It’s the friendly thing to do, right?

 

Matoba’s apartment isn’t far from Shinjuku, and Natori supposes that he should wake him.

 

He scrabbles through his pockets for his Suica card, swiping it over the sensor and paying for their cab. He hasn’t moved into the modern decade yet with that - Matoba’s got some app on his phone for paying with his pass, Natori’s too sleep-deprived with his new host career to fuss with all of that.

 

Matoba shifts in his sleep, mutters something, tucks his wrist between the seat and his cheek.

 

“C’mon, let’s go, we’re at yours. Matoba-san?” Natori says, and it takes a hand on his shoulder to rouse him.

 

“Oh, Shuuichi-san, good morning.”

 

There’s a faint scratch in his voice. They’ve shared a bed before, yes, but Natori’s usually out of there as fast as his feet will carry him; passing out, waking up, leaving. Which is to say: he hasn’t seen him wake up, before - not properly (the odd nodding off at a hostess club doesn’t really count - besides, he comes to in a snap, teeth flashing). 

 

It’s weirdly gentle.

 

“It’s been morning for hours, sorry to break it to you.”

 

Natori quirks his best, caddish eyebrow. Which is unfortunate, because Matoba kind of— cut that one open, yesterday. He drops the expression.

 

Matoba doesn’t outright smile, but it looks as if he wants to. “It’s rude not to say good morning back”.

 

There’s a stare, and the taxi driver taps his fingers against the steering wheel in the front of the car.

 

Don’t insult the mob, Natori supposes. “Good morning to you too. Happy?”

 

“Mm.” Matoba blinks at him.

 

They clamber out of the taxi, the door swinging shut behind them as the cab driver finally rids his car of a yakuza and a host (what a combo! At least they’ve got money, right? Poor guy, Natori thinks).

 

Up in the high-rise, Matoba seems as at ease as he does in a rowdy izakaya - he shucks his jacket, leans against the mirrored elevator wall as the floors flick past, speeding them to the penthouse, and makes eyes at Natori.

 

(To Natori’s credit, he makes them back - though he exaggerates the expression tiredly, winking in his best _number one host_ look.

 

Matoba has the decency to snort, and roll his eyes).

 

The apartment itself? so _yakuza;_ Shuuichi is sure that Matoba had the tatami put in himself - the building is modern, after all - they can’t be original. There are screens, sparse items of furniture, a wide, fancy-looking genkan (with literally one pair of shoes and one pair of house slippers - that’s it. Matoba fishes a guest pair out of the cabinet, dropping them on the floor in front of Natori’s toes. 

 

The fact that he bothered to put them away after Natori’s last visit either means that Matoba is as rigorous in his private routines as he is in his wild nightly business, or that they were too drunk to bother with them last time).

 

 

/////

 

 

Perching on the edge of the bathroom counter, Natori tilts his head and allows Matoba to apply some of _whatever that is_ to his cut. He should probably be getting stitches, he thinks, though the yakuza had thought not. 

 

There goes the acting fallback, Natori had thought, letting the gangster do his thing. Judging by the array of scars that Natori had seen pulling those tattoos a little tighter, Matoba has enough experience in these matters to be competent.

 

He’s too tired to complain, anyway - his eyes feel like there’s grit in them, sandpaper-rough as he blinks, wavers forwards, rights himself.

 

“That guy bled out very fast, _ne_?” Matoba says, out of the blue.

 

This is on so many levels _not_ what Natori wants to be talking about while Matoba puts ointment onto the cut that the man himself had given him for getting in his way. He raises his eyes, watches the yakuza’s brows draw together as he surveys his handiwork, right up close, stealing the air and atmosphere from Natori’s personal space. He’s supposed to answer, probably.

 

“I think you scared the ladies,” Natori says.

 

They actually weren’t that traumatised, which was surprising to him. That’s the kind of mettle one develops when working for Nanase, he supposes.

 

“Oh, I did?”

 

Matoba keeps fiddling with the cut, lower lip drawn between his teeth. It’s— unsettling. As if he likes it. He straightens up with a benevolent look, reaching to pat Natori twice on the cheek.

 

“There, you can still hang onto your dreams of becoming an idol.”

 

“Very funny.”

 

Natori climbs to his feet, finding that Matoba doesn’t step back - he’s greeted by that vulpine face, finding that their height difference lands Matoba perhaps a single centimetre lower than him. It’s both— convenient and not. Or it would be. It’s not.

 

“What?” (the last time he’d asked that, he’d received a cigarette to the hipbone, so he narrows his eyes).

 

“Nothing,” Matoba answers.

 

But, Matoba’s not moving, in fact, he’s doing _that thing_ : the head tip-and-tilt, muzzle lifting just slightly, asking for something entirely irrational, here in the day-lit, sterile bathroom of his condo. 

 

Natori’s giddy, loopy enough from his hangover, from the remaining alcohol to find that this puts him on uneven footing, but he’s brave, braces himself, prepares for the sizzle and burning flesh of what might not be a cigarette, but is something far worse— more of a tricky habit to exorcise from oneself.

 

“It’s never nothing with you, you’re just a weird guy,” Natori says. 

 

He’s just watched some poor idiot get stabbed - the only thing keeping him from being an accomplice is the fact that he’s an undercover _cop_. There aren’t many more lows to avoid, tonight— today.

 

His hands fit themselves against the mobster’s sides, finding the twin dips of his lower-most rips, feeling the heat of him there.

 

T-minus two inches between their mouths (and counting). 

 

This is only going South, Shuuichi thinks, and resigns himself to somehow making his getaway peaceful; disentangling himself playfully is the way of this push and pull they’ve got going on - leaving some hint for a future encounter, but not actually— fucking the guy.

 

It does, if he’s completely frank with himself (and he often isn’t, not in this— never), take a certain measure of _self discipline_.

 

He’s also not really in the mood for Matoba’s ‘come here, go away, come back’ games (because the other man is making no moves, and that little smirk is back on his mouth, so he’s definitely going that way), and for once, Natori just takes the initiative and presses his lips to the yakuza’s. 

 

That mouth is warm, pliant, horrendously inviting, and—

 

—Natori deepens the kiss like the fool he is, Matoba’s arms winding around his neck in turn.

 

Being a forward, awful yakuza, Matoba’s tongue’s in his mouth immediately, though there’s no real quest for dominance - not from either of them (Natori’s been too busy cow-towing to the man to try to one-up him these past weeks, and Matoba’s been too busy one-upping everybody else, Natori included).

 

It’s just a hot slide of mouths then, though he feels the yakuza work a knee between his own after approximately four seconds. Natori’s hands gravitate to the small of the other’s back, pressing there for a painfully _nice_ moment, his fingers itching to press lower, and Matoba must feel that, because there’s a graze of teeth against Natori’s lower lip when his smirk reappears.

 

His blood pulses, and this is starting to enter more danger-taped territory - there won’t be much to stop them both from taking this further, and that will set a precedent for all future encounters (until the day Matoba shanks him in the gut for betraying him to the Tokyo PD, but anyway). Matoba’s determined to push him, it seems, in any way that he can - edging their some-odd, arbitrary post-drinking make-outs into something more overt; hungrier.

 

It’s not like Natori has any male friends to compare this to, but— come on. It doesn’t take much to see that this isn’t quite a _friend_ of his. Though— saddest of all— Matoba’s the closest he’s come, even with his coworkers.

 

That thought kills some of his arousal (shame will do that - ah, the perks of being Natori Shuuichi), and he breaks the kiss, leaning in for a final peck, then one more, switching straight back into his regular, charming look, hair out of place. Rakish, affectionate, mischievous - a winning combo. 

 

Hopefully it works.

 

“Now, now,” He pats the other’s side, stroking the fabric beneath his hands, “you were half-asleep in the taxi, what’s all this about, hmm?”

 

Matoba earns himself one of Natori’s nicely crafted, warm smiles.

 

“Oh, not a thing at all,” Matoba says, and just— dismisses it, straight away, though his hips are pressing into Natori’s because they’re still— right up against each other, “I wanted to see what you’d do.”

 

Matoba’s smiles, Natori thinks, are more terrifying than any glare that he could hold. And, right now, those red eyes are lowered and fierce, looking at Natori’s mouth with intent. He’s half sure he’s about to get bitten (seriously: rabies!).

 

The best way to get around this is to barrel straight thought it.

 

Natori’s great at that.

 

“Well, you were pretty much dead in the taxi, I almost told him to take us to JR general,” he uses his hands on the other’s hips to manoeuvre around him, pivoting, then reaching up to unhook the other’s hands from where they’re lying over his shoulders. There’s an affectionate squeeze to both before he returns them to Matoba, and another dazzling, ridiculous smile ensues. “You’re not the only one who will be useless tomorrow—“ oops. “—Uh, this evening, if you don’t get some sleep.”

 

Crisis averted, maybe.

 

Natori stands there, sparkling at him.

 

“Sure, Natori-sensei,” Matoba purrs, shrugs, and doesn’t seem like he’s going to push the issue. “Whatever you prescribe.”

 

Those hands have come straight back again, though - winding in the fabric of Natori’s jacket, then releasing him, at last, entirely.

 

“Shall we go to bed?” Matoba’s gaze simmers.

 

It’s hardly fair, Natori thinks, that looks like the one Matoba’s levelling at him right now are a faculty of that damnable yakuza. It’s also unfair, in Shuuichi’s world of putting on this false face, that Matoba can seem so _bored_ when he speaks, all the while watching him like he’s about to— go down on him, if he’s honest.

 

“You take a shower first. I can’t. Head-wound, you know,” Natori says, motioning to his stupid cut, putting on his very serious, _Natori-sensei_ voice.

 

“Cat got you, _ne_?” comes the reply, and Matoba’s fingers find his chin, shaking it softly.

 

The first genuine quirk of Natori’s mouth threatens. “You wouldn’t have believed the size of its claws.”

 

“This cat’s going to take a shower, loverboy. Get out,” there’s no aggression in that tone now, no dark promise of all the terrible things it could whisper into his ear in bed.

 

It seems, Natori thinks, victorious, that he’s going to live to see another— week of binge-drinking and hostesses. 

 

Ah, lovely.

 

Matoba gives him a soft push in the direction of the doorway, then speaks over his shoulder, not even bothering to close the door or warn Natori that he’s about to— start undressing right on the spot. “Change your shirt, you smell like smoke”.

 

But anyway, at Matoba’s words, Natori discards his own jacket, folding it neatly over a chair, stepping out of the trappings of Tokyo’s underground piece by piece - waistcoat, suspenders, tie (Christ, these host guys dress like a bunch of fops, he thinks). He forgoes the shirt, down to his boxers now, and tries to remember if Matoba sleeps naked or not. Hopefully not. Hopefully. Natori hadn’t been compos mentis enough to get an eyeful of him last time, which is probably a blessing.

 

Well, whatever. He’s exhausted.

 

The low, modern-Japanese style bed, with its crisp linens, and fancy, maid-folded covers is the purest relief that Natori could have imagined. He collapses into it with a groan, cheek and hair pressing against a pillow, and he pulls the blankets over himself. The room is cool enough for it, with its air-con etc.

 

He sure as hell had better get breakfast out of this, Natori thinks, then wonders why he’s already intending to stay that long. It’s a non-issue, for now, he supposes - why not enjoy the companionship? It’s not going anywhere just yet. Foolish, sleepy - he’s both of those things right now, he knows.

 

Ten minutes later, and he’s dozing, waking when the bed dips, and damp hair trails against his shoulder. So. Matoba Seiji wears a t-shirt and boxer-briefs to bed. Cute. He knows this, because one, the yakuza’s body is now wound up with his own, and two, his own palm is stroking the length of the other’s side, from his thigh, beneath that t-shirt, and up to his ribs (traitor). It’s fine, he thinks, and curls his arm around Matoba’s waist, there’s no harm in having him here, like this. They’re not fucking, and Matoba’s not murdering anyone. This is practically good police work.

 

It’s not, he knows. It’s terrible, irresponsible police work, and now he’s done for, because Matoba’s fitted his head underneath Natori’s jaw, and is breathing warmly against his neck, a finely calloused hand coming up to curl in the soft strands just behind his ear, stroking them.

 

The man’s asleep. Shuuichi wonders if he’ll ever sleep again, in his entire life, after this.

 

Of course he does, though; tipping his head down, pathetically breathing in the scent of some fancy shampoo, his hand tracing against the tattoos that line the other man’s back. 

 

It’s moments before he’s out like a light (napping during the day isn’t anything new for him, of course), Matoba’s even, steady heart rate slowly thudding against the press of his hand.

 

 

/////

 

 

“Did you change your hair, Shuuichi-san?” the table that he’s seated at all turn their attention on their host, and he smiles, wide and gleaming, and runs a hand through his blonde, currently slicked back, mop.

 

“Why, I did, thank you for noticing, ladies,” Natori says, reaching to place a hand, very deliberately, on Kumiko’s. She’s the closest to him, and she’s also the one footing the bill for this excursion to the club that Natori works at, so he might as well butter her up a bit. “But, you must know, I’m a man of the heart - flattery will get you nowhere.”

 

Kumiko _giggles_.

 

Natori pours their drinks for them, does a clever little trick with a lighter, flipping it between his fingers and lighting one of the girl’s cigarettes for her. He makes the same lighter disappear afterwards, passing one palm over it and sleight-of-handing it into his sleeve.

 

A round of applause follows this, and Natori gives them a theatrical bow from the waist - sparkling, sparkling.

 

They think he’s so very _super-cool_.

 

He probably wasn’t, truly, made for police work, he thinks, and raises his glass in a toast to the rest of the table.

 

 

/////

 

 

Nanase is _actually,_ primarily a Ginza mama-san. Her central club is along the entertainment district’s main road, right beside the brand-name shops and glittering storefronts that characterise that area. Eighth and ninth floors, a spiral staircase, and the girls wear traditional kimono, learning the art of being Geisha, while still remaining modern hostesses. 

 

Nanase runs her empire entirely because Matoba’s father allotted it to her.

 

She had been the best hostess, number one in two of the Matoba family’s clubs, back when she was young. And, because she had never been attracted to men, she climbed the ranks even faster. It made her unattainable, she never fell for her clients like some of the stupid girls she’s taken on, never ran off with some fool who bought different girls every night. Her affairs were minimal, she kept them private. 

 

Seiji’s mother had been the first to turn her head, of course.

 

Now she watches over the boy, all these years later.

 

He is as brutal as his father, with shadows of his mother’s tenderness - at the very least he got her gleaming black hair, and those funny, slanted red eyes. The combination is feral, dangerous. Nanase likes that he’s irregular, that he’s unconcerned about propriety. Seiji’s an eccentric, in his way, and she finds that there’s an answering eccentricity in herself, too; one that enables them to get along.

 

Currently, she’s sitting at the counter of the main Ginza club, the books spread about her. Sayuri-chan is helping; she’s their current number two, and an accounting student up at Waseda, so sometimes she helps with the balances.

 

“Mama-san, could you pass me the calculator? I need to check Ayana-san’s table charge from last week,” Sayuri says, accepting the calculator from Nanase when she passes it over.

 

Their current number one is a little snake, Nanase thinks. She’ll fire her next month.

 

“You’re doing good work,” she tells the girl, rising to find an ashtray, pulling out her cigarette holder, and fixing one of her thins into the mouth of it.

 

Sayuri lights it for her; dutiful hostess that she is.

 

Matoba has certainly been spending a lot of time with that new host boy - the one who rose through his club’s ranks faster than she’s used to seeing. _Natori_ , she recalls. It’s safe to assume, she thinks, that young Seiji’s a bit infatuated - he has no friends to speak of, perhaps this is good for him. That Natori boy goes along with everything he does, anyway, shadowing him like a reluctant dog.

 

Seiji, just like his mother, draws people to him, and never lets them any closer than that.

 

It’s not unwise to live like that, she supposes, and smokes her cigarette - looking out at the sweep of the Ginza street. A good portion of it is still owned by the Matoba clan - they’re a reputable company, by day. Though, she’s only seen Seiji in his office a handful of times. He’s always been more hands on, so to speak.

 

This Natori boy will be an interesting turn of events, she thinks, straightening the hem of her suit jacket (it’s Saint Laurent today - tailored, of course).

 

She’ll watch him. She’s seen the eyes that Seiji makes at him, of course. She knows those eyes very well - he inherited them from his mother, after all.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

It only takes five months of continuous boozing and an extraordinary lack of sleep for Natori (lowered immune system, sleep-deprived) to get properly sick.

 

He sits quietly in the back of the karaoke booth, while one of the various girls that Matoba has dragged with them from that big strip club in Roppongi tries her shrill best at a rendition of some popular K-pop song, and thinks that maybe someone forgot to turn the air-con on.

 

Matoba’s been outside smoking, and he comes back in, reeking of it.

 

“She’s awful, ne?” the yakuza has thrown an arm around the back of the sofa, bracketing Natori’s shoulders, watching the arbitrary karaoke music video, not giving the four other girls any more of his attention than a wan smile.

 

It’s 3:10am, and Natori really, really would like to go home. He wants to collapse into his bed, take something to cool this fever, and perhaps sleep it off for two days.

 

 _Trenches_ , he reminds himself.

 

He’s slept with Matoba— quite a lot, actually, since that first night - he knows the man knows he’s a cop. He knows that— Matoba _knows_ that— anyway. They’re both aware of the situation.

 

They’re both pretending to be unaware, apparently, and Natori sure as hell isn’t going to bring it up.

 

 _They can’t pull you yet_ , his father had said, over the phone, _it’s risky, and you’re too close._

 

Like the old bastard has any idea of what _too close_ means, when one is dealing with the infectious, malignant (terminal) presence that is Matoba Seiji. Five months in, he’s fucking the man, and probably has long-term liver damage, probably some other complications too (who knows where Matoba's been). As well as being banned from about seventeen bars in Shinjuku alone. He’s also been some sort of accomplice (accessory?) to one murder and one attempted murder. His resumé keeps looking brighter and brighter.

 

But, right now, his temples throb, fever flushing his cheeks.

 

Matoba’s not brought the whole ‘ _my close friend and convenient bedfellow is a cop’_ thing up because, Natori decides, he’s probably planning on murdering him slowly. At this point, he’s expecting it.

 

He blinks, a little bleary, at the other man, and Matoba gives him that direct look of his.

 

“What’s going on with you, hmm?” Seiji asks, reaching over, and fitting a hand to Natori’s forehead. “Are you drunk?”

 

“You do ask silly questions sometimes,” Natori tries for charming. “It’s nothing.”

 

The girl hits some awful, F-minor high note, and they both grimace.

 

Matoba pulls his hand away, giving Natori a look over, and he can’t help but remember how the yakuza had watched him from bed that morning; languid, yet still with something narrow and calculating in the stare.

 

It may or may not be a blessing that a karaoke booth can only contain Matoba for, tops, an hour. 

 

They end up in an Izakaya after that - the girls in tow, Natori kind of— trailing behind them, miserable because now he’s sure that he’s sick, and he hates being sick, and it’s snowing a bit. Matoba seems to be ignoring him, because he’s too busy purring at karaoke girl (another blonde, obviously - Matoba's got a _type_ ), and Natori decides that perhaps he’ll go home with her tonight instead, and leave Shuuichi to his deathbed in his own apartment. For once.

 

The izakaya is packed and noisy; filled with smoke, and Matoba’s attention snaps back to him as it always does.

 

The yakuza leans in, whispers against Natori’s neck, his hand slipping down beneath the table, now unashamedly resting over the other man’s crotch, kneading. “Mm, Shuuichi-san, why don’t you tell me what you plan on doing to me later.”

 

Oh, so he feels like some dirty-talk. Because that’s exactly what Natori feels like too, with a raging temperature and a headache.

 

But, he’s a trooper, so there’s a tired, crooked smile, and he leans his head towards Matoba.

 

“Plan? I plan on sleeping in your lap, on the couch, while you stroke my hair, actually.” two can play at that game!

 

There’s a soft _tch_ from the yakuza, but, by some miracle, he still finds Natori amusing. Which is probably why he’s still alive.

 

If the girls - any of them (and there have been many hostesses and various types of ladies of the night accompanying them on these nights out) - have thought that something was a bit odd with the relationship between their two patrons, well, everyone is too afraid of Matoba to make a comment. It’s a different kind of privacy - that. Matoba does what he likes, acts the way he wants to. It’s possible that this has happened before, Natori thinks, and maybe lessons were learnt. It’s an ugly thought, but he knows Matoba’s caused one or two unhappy accidents for Shinjuku’s club owners.

 

When Matoba does that— cattish nuzzle thing that he sometimes is wont to do (drunk)— the yakuza stops, maybe having felt the sheer heat of Natori’s cheek against his own even-temperatured forehead.

 

“You’re a little hot.” Is that a look of concern? Extraordinary.

 

“Just a little? So cruel.” Natori says, because he’s ridiculous. Matoba did hand it to him, though.

 

A bland-looking stare greets the attempt at being funny.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

The night goes completely downhill after that.

 

They end up in JR General’s emergency room, because _someone_ (Natori) can’t stand on his own two feet once they get up to leave the izakaya, and goes from flushed to sickly-white within ten minutes. Matoba, put-upon, sends the girls home in a taxi, and hails one for them.

 

The yakuza is now in a chair beside the hospital bed that Natori’s lying on, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, the pointed toes of his shoes facing the ceiling. He’s flipping through a patient’s guide magazine, looking as if he’s about to fall asleep himself.

 

Natori’s dead to the world. Blessedly.

 

The heart rate monitor beeps steadily, and Matoba can’t help but think that this is all kinds of over-dramatic for one bout of flu. But, apparently there was some dehydration and this and that, and they’re keeping him in overnight for observation. The yakuza has been allowed to stay because they’re all too terrified to ask him not to.

 

It’s after Matoba’s third vending machine run that Natori wakes up, blearily looking over at the other man, raising a hand to rub at his face, then double-taking when he sees the IV taped to his forearm.

 

“W—what?”

 

Matoba rouses, crooking an eyebrow in Natori’s direction and finally dropping the gossip magazine that he’d pilfered from reception. “Oh, welcome back, I thought you might have expired.”

 

Natori’s all frowns, and Matoba can’t help but find him endearing. He looks terrible - pale, a bit gaunt, his hair’s a wreck, too. He may have been drooling. Ah, poor, hapless little rat.

 

Perhaps it’s divine compensation for the fact that Natori’s attempting to infiltrate Matoba’s network. Karma, etc.

 

There’s no answer from Natori, and Matoba plops the magazine back onto the end table, dragging his chair closer to the bed.

 

“You’re not very good at this, Shuuichi.”

 

He says it with such a smile, reaching over to smooth the blankets down, where they lie over the other man’s chest, patting him gently there, afterwards. His meaning isn’t clear, but he knows that it’ll find its target. Right there. He can almost hear the thud - right between the second and third ribs.

 

There’s a funny stutter in Natori’s breathing, and the heart rate monitor jumps.

 

Bingo.

 

Their eyes meet: Matoba’s mild, Natori’s— bloodshot, stressed.

 

Yes, he knows.

 

And, just like that, Matoba shrugs as if it’s nothing, just some hospital bedside chatter, and he stands, perches on the edge of Shuuichi’s bed and reaches down to smooth back the man’s hair from his sweaty forehead, fixing it from its utter disarray.

 

“I like the hospital gown. Suits you,” the gangster says.

 

Gingerly, Natori swats at his hand, but Matoba catches it before he can upset his IV.

 

“How long did I sleep for?” Natori seems _off,_ but, who can blame him? His cover’s been officially blown, and he knows it.

 

Seeing as Matoba’s still in his clothes from the previous evening, it’s probably not that long. Must be the meds, he thinks, watching Shuuichi’s frowning. He’s not a very good detective, or whatever these undercover cops are. Natori might be sharp _sometimes_ , but he can be hopelessly dull at others.

 

“About four hours. They put something in the drip, I think” is the reply, and the yakuza rests his hand on the covers over Natori’s stomach, finding that he’s still fever-warm, even through the barrier. 

 

There’s a long sigh, and those tired, weirdly bright eyes raise to look at Matoba, the man’s head tipping to the side, as if he has no energy in him to really face this. His other hand raises, and he lays it next to the yakuza’s, not holding, just half-way covering his fingers.

 

Matoba allows it - he’s allowed a lot of things in these past weeks, after all.

 

They watch each other as the heart rate monitor calms, and Natori’s expression turns from tense to something with more resignation in it, his eyelids dropping to half-mast.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

The next day, they stay at Natori’s apartment - for whatever reason, Matoba seems to prefer being at Natori’s. The man himself can’t really understand why; after all, the yakuza den is far more cushy - with its fancy decor and minimalist look.

 

It’s actually— peaceful, this. He’s learnt over the passing weeks that while yes, there’s a wild side to this yakuza, at his core resides an oji-san’s soul (albeit a vicious, nasty old oji-san with a sick sense of humour and a penchant for strangling underage teenagers).

 

Natori’s confined to the couch, because he’s half-dead (okay, not _really_ ), and Matoba’s currently got the man’s legs draped over him, taking up the other end of said couch.

 

The truce has continued into daylight, it seems.

 

“Thank you for the tea, I apologise for the lack of fitting crockery,” Natori says, voice a bit muted today.

 

Seiji looks over at him, strokes a hand over the other’s chest, slipping it underneath his t-shirt. “It’s nothing.”

 

It’s not nothing, though. No one makes him tea. Now, his whatever-this-is yakuza does. It’s either a comedy, he thinks, or a snuff film. Potentially a combination. A dirty one.

 

It’s interesting to see Matoba mellowed out, though. The man is never _not_ at ease, in any situation; that much Natori will give him. He’s dead-calm, always. He sprawls like he’s bored and watching the news when getting a lap dance (eyes usually on Natori instead of the girl, creepily), and he does the same at bars, restaurants, on Natori’s own sofa. But still - Natori’s seen that expression shift; he’s pinned Matoba down against the mattress night after night since this escalated, has had him breathing raggedly, choking out Shuuichi’s name when he comes.

 

That’s the way of these things, he supposes.

 

This is a different kind of _at ease_ , though. It’s more natural; Seiji’s bare feet are propped on the coffee table; he’s got skinny ankles. It’s weird.

 

It’s _temporary_ , Natori thinks, corrects himself. He’ll enjoy it while the lull lasts.

 

Right now, Matoba’s flipped on the television (Matoba himself doesn’t own a television, as he’s told Natori at least twice, because it’s mindless, and bad for the eyes), and is not paying attention to the weather forecast (cold, dry and sleeting: a true Tokyo Winter), instead he’s shifting on the couch, then listing over to the side to land his head on Natori’s stomach, using him as a convenient headrest. All that Natori can see of him is his dark head and dark eyelashes, the curve of a cheekbone.

 

This is nice, he thinks, and lays a hand on the other’s hair, letting the strands pass between his fingers, finding it as silken as always.

 

Matoba is a finely-made creature, he supposes. 

 

“I told Nanase-san that you weren’t well,” Matoba starts, his voice a little muffled against Natori’s t-shirt. “She said to tell you that you should cut down on your nights at the club.”

 

“I suppose she would know best, there,” Natori drags his eyes from the yakuza lying on him, to stare through the weather report.

 

“Mmhm,” is the only response.

 

That’s another thing: if Matoba’s aware, then Nanase is too. He’s not sure which he ought to be more afraid of. It’s a pity, because he likes Nanase - doesn’t trust her, but finds her sharpness (in all things; style, speech, business) rather— cool.

 

They lie in silence for a while; every time they talk, there seems to be something to avoid - and it’s true - there is. But still. It doesn’t make this whole ordeal any easier. Natori dug his own grave the moment he looked at those flashing eyes, that ink-black hair. Doomed from the get-go. Luck like that must run in the family.

 

Matoba yawns, and he remembers - the man has probably not slept since yesterday. It’s odd to imagine him in the hospital, making a trip down to the lobby vending machine for coffee, waiting for Natori to wake up. On any and all hospital visits, Natori’s always been alone - after his mother died, of course. He’d had just about enough of hospitals after that.

 

“You should sleep,” Natori murmurs to him, embarrassed because the delivery is so much more tender than he means it to be.

 

“So should you, you’re the patient,” Matoba replies, head lolling so that he can get a look at Natori.

 

“Has anyone ever told you, you actually have a decent bedside manner,” Natori can’t help but keep the twitch from his lips.

 

“Not recently, no. So, continue,” one of those cold hands has snuck underneath the hem of his t-shirt again, but Natori can hardly be bothered.

 

“Fishing for compliments is unattractive, Matoba-san,” he says, strokes his hair, eyes lowering, keeping the yakuza within his sights, committing the image to memory, knowing that he'll need to.

 

 

 

/////

 

 

 

Eleven months later find Natori living in Kumamoto, in exile (self-imposed, thank you), as far from Tokyo as he can manage.

 

The letter arrives on a Monday morning - and look, he doesn’t get much mail (he does’t get any mail aside from bills and fliers for newly opened sushi places), so he’s curious, wondering if it’s something from that one aunt that lives in Aomori.

 

The calligraphy chokes him.

 

 _You know the path_ , it says.

 

That’s it, there is no return address, no signature.

 

There doesn’t need to be.

 

His fingernails dig into the handmade paper, and he stares at the brushstrokes of black ink where they’ve seeped into the paper; deft, certain. The marks of a master, with a steady hand. He remembers that steady hand on his throat, on his mouth, his forehead, his— every part of him. He can feel the cigarette burn - it scarred, of course, just there, next to his hipbone. Matoba had liked to trace it, sometimes, in bed.

 

 _You know the path_.

 

Oh, he knows an invitation when he sees one. Could have just sent a Line message though, seriously. He’s sure Matoba’s guys are capable of digging that up from beneath the woodwork.

 

And yes, yes— alright. He knows the path.

 

God knows, he never heeded his mother’s warnings about keeping half an eye on it, either.

 

 

 


End file.
